A Proper Cuppa Tea

by K. G. MacGregor

  Chapter Twelve

  Channing had taken her hand the moment they stepped off the light rail near city center, ostensibly to keep them from getting separated in a Pride crowd that was shoulder to shoulder in anticipation of the festivities. But then she never let go, not even after they’d shaken free.

  Lark found the simple gesture exhilarating, its unspoken declaration clear to everyone whose path they crossed: We’re together.

  She had a vague idea where they were, having toured Amsterdam on a weekend holiday during a drug trial review in Munich three years ago. The Prinsengracht was one of the city’s major canals, along which one could view the Anne Frank House and Westerkerk, a seventeenth-century Protestant church that held the remains of Rembrandt.

  She and Channing had walked past the throngs at those landmarks to claim precious seats on the canal wall near the bridge at Berenstraat, a prime perch from which to watch the floating parade. A sparse elm tree provided only modest relief from a blistering sun. Hundreds of celebrants gradually filled in behind them, lots of them proudly wearing pink to mark their solidarity. In the distance, the flamboyant floats of the Canal Parade were approaching.

  “I wonder where Kenny is right now,” Channing said. They’d had a good laugh over his punishing hangover and his frivolous vow to remain sober for the remainder of his miserable life. “I’ve never heard him so contrite as he was at breakfast. Oliver said he was truly horrified to hear what he’d said last night.”

  “I forgave him after his gift of bacon.”

  “Technically it was I who snatched it off his plate and put it onto yours.”

  “But he didn’t snatch it back so it still counts as a gift.” His expression had been that of a scolded puppy. “I shouldn’t have been so sensitive about it. You guys have the driest sense of humor. I can’t always tell when you’re joking about things.”

  “You are not to blame for our boorish behavior.”

  True to her word, Channing clearly was making a concerted effort to learn more about her today, asking her opinions, peppering her with questions about her family and upbringing. While Lark appreciated the gesture, it bugged her to think some of it might be contrived. She’d feel better if they could shed the specter of Channing paying penance for the night before.

  After a couple of minutes sitting on the wall, Channing said, “This concrete’s cold on my bum. Would you like to sit on my sweater?”

  “You don’t have to keep doing this. I’m fine about last night, really.”

  “A promise is a promise. I’ve been a self-centered shithead. You can’t possibly say you haven’t noticed. Besides, I was offering only to share my sweater, not to give you the whole thing. I’m not that charitable. You can have the sleeves, or perhaps the side with the buttons, which will make little round indentations in your bum.”

  “All right then, but I draw the line at having you fetch me a cup of tea, extra hot. That would be taking advantage.”

  Channing squirmed to her feet, gripping Lark’s shoulder so as not to lose her balance and end up in the canal. “I don’t suppose you’d like a biscuit with that.”

  “Listen to you…so kind.”

  She chuckled to herself as Channing disappeared through the crowd. Humor had served them well in sticky situations, starting way back with their thorny confrontation on the plane. She liked that Channing was witty, droll, and otherwise entertaining, but Lark also appreciated knowing there was a genuine solemnity underneath, that Channing cared about her feelings. Given her privileged upbringing and educational background, she really was quite down to earth with problems like everyone else.

  With no sign of her return, Lark broke a promise and checked her phone for messages. While hiding out last night she’d dropped a note to Niya voicing her suspicions about Shane and asking who might be able to provide corroborating details about his relationship with the mystery woman. Niya’s response, which she read hurriedly while awaiting Channing’s return, was uncharacteristically angry and belligerent—she would immediately resign her directorship if Gipson continued its intrusive investigations into the personal lives of her staff.

  Lark was shocked more by the tone than the message itself. This was her longtime friend basically threatening to quit if Lark continued to do her job. For the first time, she questioned her own perspective. Was her zeal to find a culprit so Niya wouldn’t be held to blame getting in the way of conducting an unbiased review? It was understandable that Niya would be protective of her staff, especially if she thought Lark was going out of her way to pin the trial failure on one of them.

  “Hey, did you just trick me into getting lost so you could check your phone? You promised to turn that off.” Channing handed her both cups of tea and slithered back into the narrow space just in time to see the first boat of the parade, a floating homage to the Village People.

  “Doing it now.” She turned her eyes toward the colorful Canal Parade, though her mind was still on Niya’s note.

  The hundreds of partygoers who were packed along the canal and bridge sang along and swayed their arms in unison to “YMCA,” an excitement they sustained for more than an hour as dozens of floats sailed past, music blaring, riders throwing candy and condoms. There were outlandish costumes, half-naked dancers. Even a fully-naked dancer painted purple from head to toe. Everyone laughing and cheering. Everyone proud.

  “What’s up with you?” Channing shouted. “It’s supposed to be a party.”

  Niya’s note had killed her celebratory mood. It was bad enough that Lark didn’t yet know what had gone wrong with the Flexxene trial—now she stood to lose a good friend over it.

  “That’s it, let’s get out of here.” Channing tugged her to her feet and led her through the crowd until they were a block away, out of the noise and the press of people. “What’s going on?”

  “Remember on the plane when I said this project of mine might be a colossal clusterfuck? Turns out that was an understatement.” She briefly explained her concerns about Shane, that his personal involvement with a woman who worked for a competitor might have compromised his integrity. “We’re talking billions of dollars at stake for Gipson. This drug could help millions of people with crippling arthritis. We have to know what happened with this trial, or at least what didn’t happen. If I don’t figure it out, our drug could die in development. Years of research wasted, and millions of dollars. And now one of my best friends…instead of helping me find out what went wrong, she’s actually threatening our friendship because I’m doing my job.”

  Channing frowned and shook her head.

  “What is it?”

  “You told me the other night that this friend of yours, this Dr. Batra, was already talking about resigning even before you completed your work. Don’t you find it curious how eager she is to remove herself from the situation? Most people under circumstances such as these would be fighting tooth and nail for their job, if not their professional reputation. Anything else seems an admission of incompetence.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to call her—” She recalled the conversation in Niya’s office in which she’d laid out her response should the board ask for her resignation. Dev would sell the shops he owned and they’d retire to Portugal ten years earlier than planned. “No, there’s no way Niya orchestrated a trial failure as an exit strategy. My brain can’t even go there.”

  “That’s good, because you’d be jumping to conclusions. But the seed has been planted.” Channing poked her gently on the temple. “Now give it just a bit of water and see if it grows. Trust your instincts. I’m very bloody certain you’re smart enough to figure this out.”

  Lark basked in the compliment, conspicuously aimed at smoothing over Channing’s comments about not finishing her medical training. “I’m sorry I was such a downer. I shouldn’t have looked at my email…then I wouldn’t even know. You want to go back and see if we can catch the end of the parade?”

  “No, we need to go in the opposite direction. I don’t want to
risk running into that naked purple guy again.”

  * * *

  For the return trip to Harwich, they’d booked aboard the Stena Britannica, sister ship to the Hollandica. Around three in the morning, the two ships would actually pass in the night in the middle of the North Sea.

  Kenny had sworn off the bar, offering instead to buy dinner for the four of them in the ship’s fine dining restaurant. An excuse to wear natty duds, he said. He was indeed spiffy in his slate-gray solicitor suit and open-collared pink shirt. Even Oliver looked his best tonight, having shaved and traded his usual hoodie for a sporty jumper.

  Channing especially enjoyed her favorite jumpsuit knowing Lark liked her in it.

  The sudden call for fancy dress had sent Lark scrambling to the ship’s store, where she’d found black leggings to go with the sparkly gold tunic that matched her hair and eyes. Channing thought it lovely, but in her hopeless condition she’d likely have thought the same of a rugby shirt. That’s how it happened with her—a sudden recognition of her attraction, and the endorphins were off and running. Overnight Lark was prettier, more charming. And Channing would do anything to please her.

  No doubt about it, the feeling was mutual. Beneath the table, Lark had begun tickling her calf with a bare foot. Meanwhile Channing plotted how she’d politely excuse them from the table the moment they finished eating so they could head back to their cabin to follow up on last night’s kiss.

  “You have to admit,” Kenny said, “the Dutch really know how to throw a party. If we’d arrived on Thursday, we could have gone to the world’s largest drag show. And of course the street parties took over the whole city last night. The atmosphere in Amsterdam is so ‘anything goes.’ Even I’d have trouble getting arrested.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Oliver told Lark, who was eyeing Kenny dubiously. “He’s been known to take the occasional toke, but otherwise he’s quite between the lines.”

  Channing scoffed. “The occasional toke? He keeps a tin box of weed in his car. He got high at my grandfather’s memorial service, for bloody’s sake. And he answers to no one for it because, in case you’ve forgotten, he’s the Viscount—”

  “Please lower your voice, Channing. I’d rather not have my stateroom tossed by ship’s patrol, thank you very much. And I’ll have you know that I’ve stopped with the weed. The very day you compared me to Finn McNulty, as a matter of fact. I ditched the box at a petrol station on the A10 on my way back to London.” He sighed longingly. “I thought of just leaving it in the loo. Imagine someone’s joy at finding such a treasure. It was top grade stuff.”

  “Oh, sod off. Surely you don’t expect me to believe you gave up weed because I took the piss. Since when did you ever give a fig what I thought?”

  “Not only that…” Oliver poked him in the ribs. “Go on, tell her what you said today.”

  “Very well. Last evening—for which I’ve apologized strenuously—that was the last you’ll see of me in such a disgraceful condition, at least for the foreseeable future. Not that I’m confessing to a particular weakness, mind you. Wine with supper is still a given, and I’ll pop in for a pint when it suits me. But no more getting completely shit-faced. Such behavior is not only offensive, it’s irresponsible.”

  Oliver added, “And we’ve both agreed that irresponsible is not the image either of us wants to project, especially right now.”

  As the waiter cleared their plates, Channing studied Kenny’s demeanor. It would be just like him to set up a prank with a dramatic announcement. “Is there a punchline? ‘Oh bugger all, someone give me a Blow Job!’ Unless…whoa. Is this about politics? Has your father put you up for a run at parliament already?”

  “He has not, at least not at the moment.” There was a rare sincerity in Kenny’s tone. “It’s about what we discussed last weekend. Plan B, if you will. Oliver and I walked all over the city today talking about it. We’ve decided to look into surrogacy. There’s a company in London that specializes in helping gay men become fathers.”

  “Wow, congratulations…I guess,” Lark said, looking at her hesitantly. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “It’s very good news, considering I was Plan A.”

  “Plan B might actually be better,” Oliver said. “And I like it because it means Kenny and I can get married.”

  “To each other?” Her impulse to laugh was quashed when Kenny raised Oliver’s hand to his lips for a sweet kiss. The feeling of freedom from being at the Pride festival lingered for all of them.

  Oliver added, “We’ve been together three years now. Exclusive, believe it or not. Or so he says.”

  “I swear it on Her Majesty’s handbag.”

  “You’ve always coveted that handbag,” Channing replied flatly. Turning to Oliver, she said, “Obviously you feel Kenny is up to this.”

  The oldest among them at thirty-five, Oliver often brought wisdom to their zany discussions. “One of my greatest disappointments as a gay man was thinking I’d never have children. I’m the world’s greatest uncle but it’s not the same as being a dad. I want the chance to help shape another human being into someone good. I see that desire in Kenny too when he’s with my nieces and nephews. And they absolutely adore him. I know he’s meant for this.”

  That must have been quite the conversation in Amsterdam, Oliver scolding Kenny about the implications of getting drunk and how it might doom their chances for fatherhood. To his credit, Kenny had responded with uncharacteristic maturity.

  “And since I’ve got the issue with Alanford and Breckham Hall,” Kenny said, “we’ve agreed that it’s best if I provide the little swimmers. But we’d both be listed as fathers on the birth registration, which it turns out is perfectly lawful for the purposes of inheritance. It’s also our only feasible path, Lady Hughes, since you’ve selfishly denied me marriage and rental of your baby oven. Which I might add is sitting idle and at risk of atrophy.”

  She groaned. “Spare us the mental image of your little swimmers and my atrophied oven. Dr. Latimer, what do you know about surrogacy?”

  “It’s trending up. From a medical standpoint, there’s really not much to it. IVF…it’s all done in the clinic and the lab. Most of the complications are on the legal front.”

  “Precisely,” Oliver said. “Surrogacy laws haven’t kept pace with the technology. When the parents are two gay men, it can throw a real spanner in the works if the surrogate decides at the last moment she wants to keep the child. Even if the courts are inclined to side in our favor, the case still has to be litigated, which means fathers lose precious bonding time with their infants.”

  “That’s so absurd,” Lark said.

  Kenny added, “Cruel is what it is. With all the stress of preparing for fatherhood and fretting over whether or not the baby will be healthy, there’s this constant worry that we’ll have to fight the birth mother for custody. Unless of course she’s someone we could absolutely trust. Otherwise they say it strengthens our legal position to use a surrogate who has no relation to the baby.”

  “You’re talking about a gestational carry.” Lark nodded pensively. “That’s what they’re called. You have a sperm donor, an egg donor and a third person to carry it. In some states, the surrogate doesn’t even see the baby after it’s born. It’s brought directly to the parents.”

  “Right, so we need two women to pull off this minor miracle of modern medicine, one of whom is the actual genetic mother.” He turned to Channing. “That’s why we were hoping…”

  His pleading look, Oliver’s pleading look…a shoe was about to drop and it was a size twelve.

  “…you might be willing to make a small biological contribution.”

  “That would make me the mother.”

  “Technically yes,” Oliver said. “But not legally. Like Kenny said, he and I would be the parents of record. Our names would be on the birth certificate.”

  Oddly that sounded even stranger than marrying Kenny and bearing him a child. “I’m confused, Oliver. W
hy not use an anonymous donor? Someone totally off the page who you’re certain won’t challenge you for custody. You draw up a business contract.”

  “That’s an option, and we’re likely to go that way if you ultimately say no. Bear in mind that we’d try to choose a woman with your qualities, someone attractive and healthy.”

  “Good breeding stock, so to speak,” Kenny added.

  “Ken-ny.” Oliver admonished him with a glare that reminded Channing of her stepfather. “It would give us comfort and peace of mind to know that our child’s mother was also someone of good character. We can’t get that assurance from a sterile list of egg donors sorted by their physical attributes.”

  Kenny snorted softly. “Our luck she’d be a psychopath.”

  With the celebratory tenor of their table conversation now shifted to serious matters of reproductive biology and law, Lark had stopped her flirtatious foot caresses.

  “Even if it’s just an egg,” Channing said, “it’s still a lot to consider.”

  Kenny surprised her by taking her hand. “Channing, you know better than anyone what a cheeky bugger I can be, but please…I’m about to be serious, so brace yourself. What Oliver is saying is that we aren’t looking about for volunteers. We’re asking you—only you. If you decline we’ll go the anonymous route, but you are our first and best choice. You’re my dearest friend and it would bring me such incredible joy to look at my child every day and see you in his or her face.”

  “Aww.” Lark made a pouty face and patted her heart. “That might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Though touched by his emotional appeal, Channing felt uncomfortably cornered. “Kenny, I’m honored that you both feel that way, truly I am. But it’s a mammoth decision and I have to give it serious thought. Perhaps, as Lark says, it’s a straightforward medical process, but that’s not what concerns me most. There would be a child to sort, a child who’ll grow up at Breckham Hall less than a mile from my house, a child who’ll forever be part of my life.”